We head to the lot together, the loud music spilling out into the dark night. I stride toward the driver’s side of my truck, Tom plodding a couple paces behind.
“I can’t deal with this shit tonight,” he grumbles. “I’m five beers deep, Jack.”
“Get in. We’ll manage.”
He snorts as if I’ve told a joke, but climbs into the passenger side anyway.
A moment later, we’re hitting the road. Pulsboro is usually dead at night, most places in town closing with the sunset.
Once you make it past the small strip of bars and clubs, you’re dealing with quiet streets and darkened houses.
But we’ve got a ways to go; we’re driving to Portales where the Road Rebels reign supreme.
Our mission? Vandalize their club house in retaliation for how they trashed ours a couple weeks back.
Most of the club is out of town this week for a bike show in Colorado. But it’s still a risky undertaking, which is why Skull and Pistol want us in and out.
The drive takes well over an hour.
Tom nods off several times. I don’t bother waking him.
The way I look at it is, the sleep’ll help him sober up. It’ll freshen him up for when wedoarrive in Portales.
“Get up,” I say, shoving at his shoulder. “Hey! Tom, get the fuck up. We’re here.”
He jumps, snorting and mumbling as he sits up in his seat. It takes him another moment before he’s rubbed the sleep from his eyes and processed what I’ve said.
I park half a block down from their clubhouse, a bar called the Roadside Club.
We hop out of the truck and head to the back for the supplies. We’ve got everything from spray paint to crowbars, even fucking eggs.
“They’re about to be pissed when they return,” Tom says, grabbing a couple cans of spray paint. “Imagine their faces.”
“I’m sure we’ll hear all about it. C’mon.”
We use the crowbars to jimmy our way into the club, then duck inside. We forgo any lights, working in the dark as we start trashing the place.
Their club’s not so different from ours—wood panels, neon beer signs and scantily clad bikini posters, a huge bar with a wide selection of liquor.
I shake a spray can and then start drawing on the main wall, spelling out the message Skull gave. That this is their warning. If they fuck with us again, it’s over.
They’re dead meat.
Tom takes to the bar, popping open a bottle of whiskey to chug down, then smashing rows upon rows of other bottles. The glass shatters all over the floor as he bursts into deep laughter.
“Hey, keep it down,” I order. “We don’t want to draw too much attention. The more noise you make, the greater the chance somebody’ll hear.”
“Ah, take the stick outta your ass!” he laughs, sweeping his arm across a shelf and sending five more bottles tumbling down. “We’re here to fuck shit up, Jack! Those bastards’ve got nobody to blame but themselves!”
He vaults over the bar counter and then takes to the furniture. He slams the crowbar into a table and creates a deep crack in the wood. He kicks out the legs of several chairs and smashes some overhead lights.
I’m getting impatient, more ready to get the hell out of here than anything.
“What’re you doing?” comes a third voice.
I’m halfway through spray painting another wall, and Tom’s snapping some more legs off chairs. We both look up at the wheezy sound and find a hunched old man in the doorway that leads to the back of the clubhouse.
He’s sporting a sleeve of tattoos on both arms, a couple of which are the Road Rebels insignia. One look at his weathered face, I already know what we’re dealing with.
